Tremor of Intent by Anthony Burgess

Devi. Sort of secretary she is to this big fat foreign tycoon. Mr Theodorescu. Speaks lovely English he does, though, Oxford-educated I should imagine. At least she’s
called
his secretary. See how much
she
knows about typewriters.’ Wriste thought a moment, eyes down. ‘It means fixing things in the purser’s office. I’ll have to be quick. A few quid should do it.’ Sighing, Hillier handed over a five-pound note. He would not be able to live like this in his retirement. ‘But,’ said Wriste with great sincerity, ‘if there’s anything at all I can do –
anything
– you’ve only got to ask.’
2
    Going to the First Class bar, Hillier expected the last word in cushioned silk walls, a delicious shadowless twilight, bar-stools with arms and backs, a carpet like a fall of snow. What he found was a reproduction of the Fitzroy Tavern in Soho, London W1, the Fitzroy as it used to be before the modernisers ravaged it. The floor had cigarette-ends opening like flowers in spilt beer; a man with long hair and ear-rings was playing an upright piano that must have cost a few quid to untune; on the smoked ceiling there were tiny chalices made out of silver paper and thrown up to stick, mouth down, by their bases. The long wooden bar-counter was set with small opaque windows which swivelled on ornate Edwardian frames, obstacles to the ordering of drinks. A job-lot of horrid art-student daubs covered the walls. There even seemed to be a hidden tape-recording of Soho street sounds, the Adriatic brutally shut out. The Tourist bar, Hillier thought, must have a very luxurious decor, no fun to the decorators.
    The passengers, though, were not dressed like touts, yobs, junkies and failed writers. They were dressed like First Class passengers, adream of rich rippling textures, and some of the men had golden dinner-jackets, a new American fashion. The aroma of their smokes was heady, but some of them seemed to be drinking washy halves of mild beer. Hillier’s professional nose at once divined that they were really disguised cocktails. He had not expected that he would have to fight his way to the bar, but this, to the rich, must be part of the holiday. There was, however, no paying with money and no handfuls of soaked change. That would be taking verisimilitude too far. Hillier signed for his large Gordon’s and tonic. And the barman, who had got himself up to look dirty, would undoubtedly have liked to look clean.
    Hillier was at once accosted by the forward youth called, he remembered, Alan Walters. He was dressed in a well-cut miniature dinner-jacket and he even had a yellow Banksia in his buttonhole. Hillier hoped, for the lad’s own sake, that his glass of tomato-juice did not contain vodka. Master Walters said: ‘I’ve found out all about you.’
    â€˜Oh, you have, have you?’ said Hillier, with a pang of fear that perhaps the boy really had.
    â€˜That man Wriste told me. For thirty bob. A very mercenary type of man.’ His accent was not right, not rich enough. ‘Your name’s Jagger and you’re connected with typewriters. Tell me all about typewriters.’
    â€˜Oh no,’ said Hillier, ‘this is meant to be a holiday.’
    â€˜It’s all nonsense about people not wanting to talk shop on holiday,’ said Alan. ‘Shop is all most people have to talk about.’
    â€˜How old are you?’
    â€˜That’s an irrelevant question, but I’ll tell you. I’m thirteen.’
    â€˜Oh, God,’ murmured Hillier. The nearest group of drinkers – fat men become, with subtle tailoring, merely plump; silk-swathed desirable women – looked at Hillier with malice and pity. They knew what he was going to suffer; why had he not been here before to suffer equally with them?
    â€˜Right,’ said the boy. ‘Who invented the typewriter?’
    â€˜Oh, it’s so long ago,’ said Hillier. ‘I look